


Golden Eyes

by Caliske_XP



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Horror, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mystery, Painting, Paranormal, Reincarnation, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21546595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caliske_XP/pseuds/Caliske_XP
Summary: Aziraphale Fell lives on the road as a salesman for a big company. He is ready to make a big deal in the next town he is visiting, but people are acting weird towards him. Nightmares start to hunt Aziraphale and soon he realizes all signs point to the same thing:That painting of a gorgeous man in his hotel room.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	Golden Eyes

New hotel, new village, new clients.

Aziraphale sighs at the same boring rhythm of his life. He doesn't remember why he even took this job in the first place. Traveling across the country had seemed like a great deal, but it had gotten dull. It is always the same speech he has to attract potential buyers for the new hyper-modern materials to build houses, companies,... basically everything. But most of all, the job has gotten lonely. Aziraphale doesn't have the time to meet someone new in any of the town he visits, much less find love, settle down and all of that. No, Aziraphale is alone. That is, if you don't count the phone calls he makes almost every day with his best friend Anathema, who is still in college.

With a sigh, Aziraphale falls down on the obsolete bed which still has curtains for some privacy. The whole room is decorated as if it originated from the early eighteen hundreds. Maybe the house or even the village was built in that period. The dark wooden ceiling of the room creaks when the wind blows forcefully against the hotel. The wallpaper and curtains around the bed and in front of the window are a velvety wine red with a pattern of fleurs-de-lis all over them. The floor is also made out of wood, a lighter colour than used for the ceiling. Perhaps it's newer, Aziraphale thinks.

In the corner of the room, opposite of the bed stands an old looking dresser. Aziraphale had once seen it in one of those movies, situated in the old English times, in the room of a young lady who used the mirror on top of it to apply her make-up. The one in the hotel room is rather similar looking to the one in the movie and makes Aziraphale wonder if it once had belonged to a rich girl. Who knows how many women have been using this thing since she died.

Against the wall sits a closet in the same style as the dresser with little twigs and flowers carved into its wood. There are also two doors in the room. One that leads to the corridor and is placed next to the closet, while the other one leads into a modern looking bathroom. The proprietor had bragged when he told the salesman all about the newly installed bathrooms in all the rooms. That door was placed next to the dresser. At the other side of the bed, opposite to the closet is the rather large window with soft golden curtains to match the wallpaper. It looks out over the walled garden of the hotel and a small alley behind it.

Aziraphale feels as if he walked through a time portal, but all things considered, he likes the room and the serenity it radiates. There is one thing in the room that truly catches his eye though. It had already when he first entered the room and had been the first thing Aziraphale had taken a closer look at.

The painting, hanging from the wall opposite to the bed and next to the door of the bathroom, had been impossible to miss. The amazing golden eyes of the man pictured on it seem to stare right at Aziraphale wherever he is in the room. And not only at him, but also into his soul, like the man knows his deepest and darkest secrets only from just one glance.

His hair is a coppery-red, a small smile plays around his lips and it's clear he is wearing clothes that come from a different period of time. He looks relaxed for the painting. Aziraphale can't help but be intrigued by the beauty of this man. He can't be older than himself. Maybe forty-five at most. Aziraphale knows that if he had been real and lived in this time, he would have fallen for this man in the blink of an eye.

Aziraphale takes one more look at the painting before looking away and deciding that it is time to take a shower. He lazily throws his suitcase on the large bed and smiles when he opens it. The picture of Anathema and her fiancé Newt is always on top of his belongings. It's not that he needs it to remember his favourite and only friends but it is nice to see their smiling faces once in a while.

He puts it on top of his bedside table carefully. Then he digs under the clothes to get to one of his towels. He doesn't take the extra bar of soap or the small bottle of shampoo he stole from one of the smaller hotels once. The owner had already told Aziraphale about the good services this hotel offers, inclusively the shampoo and soap especially made for them.

He takes his time showering. Aziraphale doesn't come across a lot of hotels with a shower as modern as this one. The water won't get cold no matter how long he stays in there and the shower head has a massage setting, which Aziraphale uses gratefully to relax his muscles, stiff from the long train ride through the British country. 

Stepping out of the shower, the room has fogged up completely. Aziraphale likes his showers to be hot. Especially this time of the year, when the leaves are falling down from the trees and covering the ground with a brown blanket. He is glad he chose this hotel the stay the night. It's nice here. He hopes the mattress of the bed will be as forgiving for his back as the massage setting on the shower was, but looking at how old everything in the room looks, he won't be surprised the mattress was made of dried hay.

Aziraphale gets into his tartan pajamas and walks out of the bathroom again. The yawn escapes him before he even knew it was coming. It surprises him how tired he actually is. But still, he had traveled all day, away from the peculiar town seven hours from here. He swears the people they had met there were crazy. They had all stared at him, not bought anything of him nor shown any interest in anything he had said. When one woman had started to cry and told him to be careful, Aziraphale had known it was time to leave. His boss wasn't too happy to hear he had not made a pound in that town, but Aziraphale isn't bothered. He knows he is one of the best salesmen his boss has. He makes the big money with his smooth talk. He knows he won't get fired for a town with crazy people who didn't want to buy anything from him.

The bed creaks as he sits down on it. At least the mattress feels nice and soft under his butt. Aziraphale smiles at that. He is starting to really like this hotel. Even the flowery scent that radiates from him now from the soap in the shower doesn't bother him. He likes the scent. It calms him. It's finally time to relax and sleep now. The sun had disappeared behind the row of houses on the opposite side of the garden. The curtains are closed and Aziraphale wonders if the curtains on the bed are just for decoration. The bow with which they are tied together strengthen that thought and he decides to leave them open for tonight. Maybe he can try them out another day since he will be staying here for at least four days. The industry in this small town is growing, so there are a lot of potential costumers he has to talk with. But that are worries for tomorrow. Right now, he just wants to sleep.

He lays down on the bed and pulls the colourful blankets up over his legs. That is when his eyes fall on the painting of the man again. He is still looking relaxed as he leans back in the chair he is sitting in. The same small smile is playing on his lips, his eyes closed.

Aziraphale frowns. He could have sworn the man had his eyes open on the painting when he first came in. Golden. Like the jewellery adorning the heads of kings and queens. He shakes his head. No, that must have been his imagination. Besides, he is tired enough to be hallucinating. He chuckles to himself at that thought and gets comfortable. "Goodnight, good man." He says to the painting and flicks of the lights by pulling the cord at the head of the bed. He lays his head down on top of the pillow and smiles as he drifts off after a long working day.

His dreams are peculiar and vague that night. He often has weird dreams, but none of them felt as real as this one does.

Aziraphale is sitting up in his dream, looking around in a dark room he doesn't know. Or maybe he does know the room. He can't tell. The light of the moon is not enough to distinguish the features of the room enough to recognize them. Suddenly there are footsteps getting closer to the bed. When he looks towards the sound, he sees nothing but darkness. "Who is there?"

Silence follows. From the corner of his eyes, he sees a shadow move at the other side of the room. His head snaps in the direction where he can now hear footsteps. A silhouette of a man is standing next to the bed. He can't see the face, but he can hear the breathes the man takes. Silence fills Aziraphale's ears between every breath the man takes. Goosebumps appear on his exposed skin. And then the man talks.

"You are mine." He whispers in a low voice. Then he leans closer to Aziraphale and kisses his head. The kiss burns on his forehead. Aziraphale screams in his dream. He clenches his eyes shut until he feels the touch disappear. When he opens his eyes again, the lights are on. He is at the hotel, staring at the painting of the man now. The man is looking right at him, his smile evil. But Aziraphale's eyes can only focus on the bullet hole in the man's head. Pieces of brain and skull are pasted to the wall behind the chair and Aziraphale can see the blood flow out. It moves. It's streaming down, over the man's face, out of his mouth and starts to drip over his clothing. It doesn't stop there. The dark red blood runs out of the painting and over the wall down to the floor of the hotel room.

He wakes up with a gasp and scrambles up out of the bed. He is in the same hotel room he fell asleep in yesterday. This time there is sunlight streaming in through the curtains at the window. It's morning.

Aziraphale's heart is hammering in his chest in fear. He is looking at the painting from his dream. The man is still on it. He is sitting relaxed in his chair, a small smile on his lips and his golden eyes open.

"Normal. It was just a dream. It's a normal painting." Aziraphale tells himself as he keeps looking at the painting. He calms down when he can't find any blood on the canvas. "Just a dream, you coward, calm down." He makes note of how the painting is sitting exactly in his mind. He needs to know if nothing changes about it. The golden eyes are really creeping him out now, the pupils almost look like slits from where he is standing.

Aziraphale walks towards it and shrugs. "You are making me uncomfortable." He mutters and takes the painting of the nail. He puts it on the floor with the painting facing the wall. He smiles at himself. Now that stupid piece of kitsch won't be bothering him anymore.

Aziraphale decides to go on with his day. He gets ready and goes to the breakfast room. There are no other guests in the hotel since he has the whole buffet to himself.

'Wonderful,' He thinks. 'More for me.'

The salesman eats all he can, looking at the people rushing past on the streets on their way to work or family. He smiles as he takes in the normality of all of it. He can't believe he would get worked up over something as stupid as a painting in a hotel room.

"Ah. Good morning, Mr Fell."

Aziraphale's head shoots up as he sees the proprietor of the hotel come in. He has a wide smile on his face, making his wrinkles even more prominent on his face. "Did you have a good night’s rest?" He asks him as he stands in the doorway, looking down at Aziraphale who is just finishing his breakfast.

"Yes, it was quite lovely, sir. Very soft mattress." He smiles back at him awkwardly as he puts the last bite of his toast in his mouth.

"So, no ghosts came in to bother you, lucky lad?"

Aziraphale almost chokes on his toast when he hears the man's words and thinks of the nightmare he had that night again. Golden eyes and an evil smirk are burned on his retina. "E-excuse me?" He sees the man shrug and chuckle.

"Don't worry, lad. It's just the rumors going around, ya know? They say this village is haunted. Filled with ghosts. But let me tell you, it's all just a bunch of stories." He runs his hand through his short and greasy silver hair. "Been living here all my life and never encountered one ghost."

Aziraphale looks at him suspiciously but forces a smile on his face. "That is very reassuring, but I never believed in ghosts anyway." He stands up from his chair. "Thank you for the lovely breakfast, sir, but I must go. I have work to do."

"Ah, yes. Off you go, Mr Fell. Good luck finding buyers." He hears the man say before he goes upstairs to his room again. He is already dressed in his business suit, which is outdated but that is just part of his charm. Quickly he takes the briefcase containing all of the documents he needs. Aziraphale had done his research for this town, digging into the smaller companies who could be interested in expanding. He even has some meetings planned out for the four days coming.

Before he leaves, Aziraphale goes into the bathroom one more time to take in his appearance. The suit and bow tie are done perfectly. His hair is looking good. There is a smudge of jam on his cheek. Aziraphale sighs. It's a good thing he decided to check his appearance once more before he left. He opens the tap and waits until the water becomes lukewarm. Then he cups his hands to collect a fair amount of water before he bends down and gently washes his face with the water. When he opens his eyes again, Aziraphale immediately gasps at the blood red water in his hands. He steps back with wide eyes as he looks at the tap, red liquid, blood, streaming out of it.

He then looks up in the mirror to see if his face is covered in the blood, but all he sees is clear droplets of water covering his chin. As soon as he looks down, he breaths out in relief. It's just water flowing out of the tap, nothing else.

"It was the jam. You were mistaken." He sighs and shakes his head as he turns off the tap and smiles. "It was nothing." He looks at himself in the mirror again.

"What...?" He stares at the black, upside-down cross on his forehead. Slowly he brings up his hand and wipes his fingers over it. As soon as he does, the cross is gone. Aziraphale shrugs and wipes his hand at the towel. He really should get some more sleep. Then he hurries out the door. He is running late for his first meeting.

Luckily, the company he is visiting today is not too far away from where he is staying. Aziraphale walks down the street briskly, passing pedestrians and apologizing to the few he bumps into. It's only when a woman gasps loudly at him he notices the stares he is getting once again. It's just as in the last town. Eyes are following whenever he passes and a few are even whispering. Aziraphale immediately starts feeling uncomfortable.

He is painfully aware of the stares pointing at his forehead. Unconsciously, he wipes his hand over his forehead again at the same place he knows the black cross was. He tries to ignore the passers-by. He knows nothing is there anymore.

With all the distractions, Aziraphale almost walked past the cheerful orange front of the company. He curses himself silently and forces himself to calm down. He fixes his posture and tartan bow tie before he walks up to the glass front door and grabs the door handle. For a second he sees his own reflection in the door. He also sees the weird figure at the opposite end of the street. Dressed in...

"Can I help you?" The door had swung open in front of Aziraphale without him noticing it. A middle-aged woman is standing in front of him. Her greying brown hair is held together on the top of her head by a tight bun. Her lips are painted bright red. She looks like any other office lady in a white shirt and dark pencil skirt.

"Oh." Aziraphale blinks distracted a few times before smiling. "My name is Aziraphale Fell. I have an appointment with the manager." He explains, quickly forgetting about the man he saw.

The lady's eyes flash to his forehead and she immediately frowns. "Dear God." She whispers before she looks into his eyes again. Is that pity in her eyes? Fear? Aziraphale can't tell what it is before she steps away from him. "Wait here. Don't come in yet. I will get him for you." She hurries away before the salesman can agree.

He is confused. That was rather rude. Not something that has happened to him before. The door falls shut in his face again and Aziraphale is left alone with his reflection in the glass. He can't help but look at the place the man was standing, but there is nothing there, just as he was expecting.

"Mr Fell." The door opens again to a large man in his fifties. The lady from before is hiding half behind his back, peering around him to catch another glimpse of the salesman at the door. "I would like for you to leave."

Aziraphale gapes at him as soon as his brain registered the words. "Excuse me?" He manages to speak clearly without stuttering. "We have an appointment. I thought you were interested in making a deal with-" The man breaks him off. "I would like for you to leave this instant. I am terribly sorry Mr Fell, but I do not wish to bring damnation upon my employees by letting you in here."

Only a second later, the door is thrown shut in Aziraphale's face. He can hear the lock rattling as he is shut out without any explanation. The salesman has to take a second to recompose himself and shake his head. This is unheard of. His jaw clenches as he turns his back to the bright orange front and walks away glaring at the sidewalk. He keeps walking, not really caring where he will end up.

"Sir?" It has been a while since Aziraphale looked up from the ground, but the voice of an elder lady makes him snap out of his thoughts. He had unknowingly walked into the park in the middle of the town. His eyes fall on an old woman, sitting on a bench only a few meters to his left.

"Can I help you?" He asks, forcing a smile on his face. He isn't up to talking to anyone else today, scared he will lose his patience and snap.

"I think it is the other way around, dear. I can help you."

Aziraphale frowns as he watches the woman throw some seeds on the ground, feeding the doves gathering at her feet. "What do you mean?" He asks carefully, staying where he is. His mind has been playing tricks on him all day... ever since that dream. He doesn't want to have another one of these crazy episodes.

"You know what I mean. I am talking about the black mark on your forehead." She looks up at him curiously. "Please sit down." She pats the wooden planks of the bench next to herself.

Aziraphale walks closer to her but doesn't sit down. "What do you know about it?" He is almost whispering. People have been acting strangely for a while now. Even in the last town he visited.

The lady hums. "It's the mark of the devil."

Aziraphale snorts and shakes his head. "It's very nice of you trying to help me, but I don't believe in any of that. Have a nice day, lady." He grabs his briefcase a tad bit tighter before starting to walk away.

"You saw the painting, didn't you?"

Her words make him freeze to the path he is standing on. He doesn't reply and doesn't turn to look at her.

"Golden eyes, stunning smile." The lady starts describing the man terrorizing Aziraphale's dream. Still, he does not turn around. His eyes have locked on the man staring at him from the other side of the grass court. He is clearly smiling. "Victorian clothes." A dark red ruffled shirt and darker tight trousers. "Red hair." Tousled in the wind. Aziraphale blinks and the figure disappears. "Following you?"

Aziraphale sighs and turns around. "Can you tell me how you know about this?" He asks her worriedly. The man in the painting is indeed following him. He had seen him in the glass door before and now here. He is not going mad.

"Everyone in England has heard of him, his legend, "She says sadly. "He will keep following you until you are dead. He will plague your dreams, your perception of reality, everything."

"And how do I make it stop?" Aziraphale asks her.

The lady looks at him. "Kill the evil." She says. "Kill the demon before it kills you." She stands up then and gathers her stuff. "Good luck, sir." She staggers off then, humming softly to herself.

"Wait!" Aziraphale panics and goes after her. "How do I kill it?"

"It's the hotel." She says. "It must be. I do not know what to do, I would have done it already. But I must go now. I do not want it to get back into my life. Goodbye." She shuffles towards the street a bit faster, soon disappearing behind the corner, leaving Aziraphale staring at nothing in shock.

~*~

Aziraphale is standing in front of the painting, which is still placed against the wall where he left it. He takes a deep breath before slowly reaching for it, but he hesitates and stops. Maybe he should not be touching it.

He looks around the room and takes a shirt from his suitcase. With that wrapped around his hand like a glove, he reaches for the painting again and takes hold of the upper side of the frame. "It will be okay." He whispers to himself and turns it around, avoiding looking at the man until he has hung it back on its place and stepping back.

Now he is sure. The painting has definitely changed. The man is still sitting in the same chair. His eyes are opened, but they are portraying pure fear. Aziraphale frowns as he looks at the man. He looks frightened. What should he be scared of? The painted shoulders are tensed, his hands raised as if he wants to stop something from happening.

Aziraphale brings the painting closer, his focus on the man's eyes. He swears he can see a reflection in them. He leans forward towards the painting so he can have a better look at the image.

In the golden colour, he can see his own face, staring back at him just the way he is. Behind him, something is moving. Aziraphale gasps, realizing what he is looking at and tries to turn around on his feet. Before he can do so, however, he feels a cold hand grab him by the back of his neck. He is thrown through the room and hits the wall next to the bed hard, tumbling to the floor. He scrambles up quickly and looks around the room. There is no one there.

Aziraphale is panting, clutching his stinging shoulder. His eyes keep scanning the room, but he can't detect anything out of order, except... His eyes land on the painting again. The chair is empty.

"Oh no..." He whispers and starts running to the door. He has to get out of here. He reaches the door and turns the handle. It won't open. The door is locked. The salesman tries to turn the key, but nothing works. He curses softly under his breath and keeps trying, kicking against the door.

He stops when he hears the chair by the dresser scrape over the floor. Slowly, he turns around, scared of what might happen. The chair is moving on its own, turning away from the dresser and towards Aziraphale. A second later, the chair flies towards his head.

It takes Aziraphale a bit too long to respond as he tries to dash aside and the chair hits his shoulder with great force. The chair splinters and Aziraphale feels the white-hot pain shoot through him. He can't move his arm anymore after he falls to the ground. He tries to crawl under the bed for a place to hide, but he doesn't even get close.

Something grabs his ankle and drags him across the room harshly. The door to the bathroom opens on its own and Aziraphale is dragged in. He tries to get free from the grip bruising him, but nothing works. What he needs now is a miracle. Before he knows it, Aziraphale is flung across the room again. This time his head hits the mirror. He can feel the glass crack... or is that his skull. He is not able to tell. Blood is pouring from the wound on his head as he sinks down on the tiled floor, sitting up against the wall in the debris of what is left of the sink.

"Die, coward." A low demonic voice sounds through the room. Aziraphale watches with a clouded vision as smoke starts coming together in front of him. Black smoke clusters together in the shape of a figure and then it becomes solid.

Aziraphale can barely focus, but he recognizes the figure now standing in front of him. "N-no." He whimpers pathetically. He can't move anymore. He is losing a lot of blood, his body is severely injured.

The man in front of him is the hotel manager, who had welcomed him the day before and had greeted him so nicely during breakfast. His eyes are completely back, his mouth is pulled into an evil smirk. He looks more like a monster than a man. A demon.

"I win, Aziraphale. Again." The same voice sneers in Aziraphale's mind. A heartbeat later, the demon charges for him and Aziraphale knows he will die. He takes a last deep breath and-

A scream sounds through the room. It's deafening as another figure appears right in front of him. A bright white light is shining from the man's skin and Aziraphale recognizes him as the man from the painting by his tousled red hair and the old-fashioned clothes.

The man raises his hands as he makes impact with the demon and fights it off. Aziraphale flutters his eyes closed as the two creatures fight in front of him. The bright light becomes too much.

It could have been hours, minutes or seconds. Aziraphale hears every shout, every hiss of the demon before the room becomes peaceful once again. He flutters his eyes open again and gasps.

The man of the painting is crouched next to him, sitting close with a hand raised to cup Aziraphale's cheek. Aziraphale whimpers scared. He can't do much more than that.

"Don't be scared, angel. That demon is gone now." Aziraphale can hear the voice clearly, but the pink lips of the man did not move. He must have been speaking in his mind.

"I'm sorry he did this to you. I'm so sorry." Pain is radiating from the man's eyes as Aziraphale looks into the liquid gold, endless gold.

An image flashes in his mind. A name, the man in front of him smiling, Crowley.

The man in front of him must be able to sense the change as Aziraphale relaxes slightly, feeling the familiarity of Crowley now once more. Blood is still tickling down from the wound on his head and shoulder. Aziraphale is sitting in a puddle. He doesn't know if it is water or blood.

"My angel." The man whispers and places his lips on Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale's eyes fall shut as images explode behind his eyelids. Himself with Crowley, dancing in a large room between other couples, all of them dressed in the same old-fashioned clothes. Then it changes to the two of them riding horses, racing each other with the promise of a kiss for the winner. Then a night, filled with love between him and Crowley. Time seems to go backwards as Aziraphale watches the images change. He and Crowley as knights, setting a pact together; them walking over the market place, hand in hand back in Rome; two angels standing on a wall with different coloured wings sheltering each other.

And Aziraphale knows. He knows now. The demon putting the bullet through Crowley's head in 1838, Aziraphale standing next to him, frozen, not able to do anything but scream as his lover died. And then his own death. The reincarnations that came before that moment and followed.

Aziraphale knows and smiles. "My love." He whispers before he loses his grasp on reality and gives into the feeling of dizziness taking over his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm thinking of making this a longer story... Let me know if you would be interested? 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are very much appreciated!
> 
> Love y'all :)


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